Surge
by Modwolf
Summary: Severus/Lily oneshot. Contains sex, hence the rating. Set in their fifth year, pre-Worst Memory. ANGST. Do R&R. And also, I hate coming up with titles. Read and review, please.


Her skin too good to bear, too good for your hands that don't belong on her, you _know _they don't belong on her, you are tainting, you are ruining; by touching perfection it remains perfect no more, merely becomes something lesser, something normal or even obscure, fading like your features into the pressing midnight darkness, enclosing your body and devouring it, much like you devour her with your appearance, _smothering _her beauty with your taint. It is vile, it is obscene, how this is happening, _why _this is happening; you don't even know, you just go with it because you would not be able to bear yourself if you passed on this opportunity to feel her breathing, to watch her this closely and taste her soft, pink lips. They are dry, as are yours, and they smother each other in substance, her saliva mingling with yours, as your tongue feels so insanely, gravely misplaced that you barely manage to touch hers with yours what so ever, barely dare to move, when moving is what this is all about, when there will be no time left soon, much too soon for this to be remotely real. This is just an interlude of complete and utter _madness._

You do not remove clothes, she does. You do not want to fuck it up, you do not want her to end it, and yet you think that if maybe you seem like you know what the hell you're doing she might want you out of something more than pity, when you know that this will never be it. Afraid to look at her and yet you cannot look away. She is breathtaking. She is Lily; she is beautiful, she is clever, she is your _friend, _she is your _friend _who does not think bad of you and you are about to fuck it up, you are _ruining_ this as the seconds tick away, and it is the height of awkward, it is the height of pain, of the insufferable, of the unbearably plainly _clearly _bad idea kind of situation, and yet she does not end it, she merely keeps on kissing you. As if she was enjoying it. As if you could ever please her, as if she could be happy with you.

In the way that you want to share happiness with her.

She kisses you numb, she freezes your brain and takes your hands and moves them along her body, her shapes – you're so bluntly, daftly nervous and misplaced and you know that this is not right, you know that you are _ruining it, _but when you have been longing for such a period of time, as your entire childhood, as your preteen imaginations, through fucking puberty; it becomes so very hard to resist when the opportunity _finally _comes along, even though you know that it was never meant to be, even though you shouldn't think it anymore but still do because you are an idiot, because you have nothing else to do, because she is not giving you an option: you are trapped, because it has always been about her.

She makes it trivial, she makes this smaller than it is: she lets you touch her, or rather, she makes you touch her and you do not object, she makes you touch her and you close your eyes as not to see your shaking hands – thin, bony, pale – across her freckles, covering her skin in little orange dots that you can't even see in the darkness, but you imagine them all the way down her hips, as her breaths tell you that please, this is it, and you are still just a teenage boy knowing that this is a terrible, terrible mistake, and knowing that you will not attempt to stop it.

(Those moments are the worst, really, when you see it so clearly, and you just ignore all your impulses to stop, _knowing _that you are tearing up _exactly _what you want whole.)

You move inside of her, _barely,_ practically expecting it to physically hurt - the act of ruining, of smashing dreams like glass bulbs to stone floors - for there to be chafing and trembles and it being over faster than you can manage to breathe her name. But you do not even get to that, you fall silent as you come, and _you hate yourself for coming, you hate yourself for so many things already but you fucking __despise__ yourself for coming right then; _no sounds admitted from either of you and it is horrible, it grows into your ears, the quiet, no, the simple lack of noises and breaths and words, only hers, stuttering. It is over so fucking fast. She is uncomfortable; she is realizing that there was no reason, no reason to do this with you, and she is feeling guilty and you hate yourself for allowing her to touch you, for allowing her to feel, for that soft hand caressing your pale cheek and for those lips pressed to yours in mere, sheer sympathy, because this was not anything else, this was pity and pity _only, _as you bite whatever body part is the closest to your teeth (lip, tongue, the inside of your cheek – you cannot tell the pains apart because it simply makes no difference, it makes nothing at all in comparison) and on trembling, stick figure arms you leave her body warm, laying down beside her but wanting desperately to escape.

You get this notion that if you cannot leave (because you simply cannot leave, you cannot leave her with your heart beating so fast you can barely breathe; practicing breath control as to not take place in the silence, devouring you like an unbearable force of pure screaming noise), you might just hold her hand and lay there and fall asleep, but she does not take your hand, and she definitely does not fall asleep. Seconds go by, minutes. Her breaths bare in the air, calming down, yours not existing except in brief, hard shakes as you slip up and lose control, and you do not look at each other, and you know that you will never speak of this again. You wouldn't do that if you were her either. You wouldn't do that if you were anyone.

She starts to put her clothes back on, carefully yet not slowly; she wants to leave but show respect. The combination does not exist but merely in the effort that you manage to see through because she is Lily and you love her but you cannot love her because… she does not love you like that. _Like that. _Nasty, filthy, _snivelly __that__. _You sit up in bed, your arms weak yet supporting you. You do not speak because you don't know what to say or even how to use words at the moment, but it is _alright, Sev, _she does all the talking right now, which is not much but at least it is something, as she tells you that you'll see each other up at the castle, and if not you'll see each other after Christmas and have a happy new year and all those things people say when they really have no clue of what else to say at all.

She leaves. You're left in bed; you are naked, you are ugly, you are pathetic, and you have just had sex. It is barely noticeable, the feeling of it inside of you. You have ruined, but it was an orgasm, and it was with Lily Evans. You are a fragment of a man.


End file.
